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A Helluva Year
'A Helluva Year ' John Creed was a diplomatic envoy as part of a Federation investigation. That’s how he was sent to the Free State. That’s how he met Nezak. In diplomatic terms, the case was a real clusterfuck. It seems a high-ranking Ferengi diplomat had been murdered while aboard a Federation vessel. That investigation lead to a Ferengi captain by the name of Hadron and then, just as it seemed John’s case might be getting somewhere, the esteemed Captain Hadron found himself embroiled in a very public intergalactic incident. The kind of intergalactic incident that costs the lives of hundreds of thousands of would-be Federation citizens and inevitably leads to people screaming their heads off about conspiracies. And hey, seeing as how he and Captain Hadron were such good friends, maybe he could look into this, too? Personally, John didn’t believe a word of it. It’s not that he didn’t think The FSRP were capable – they’d come out of The Grazer Incident smelling like a rose and God knows, they didn’t blink at the idea of profiting off all that suffering. It’s just that John had learned at least one thing in his long and surly career in the world of Federation politics: if it comes down to a choice between rank stupidity and a vast, intergalactic conspiracy that echoes all the way through the very corridors of power itself… bet on stupid every time. Hell, as far as John was concerned this was just situation-normal for The Fed. He had one Captain on the hook for murder and another who failed to stop a military genocide. And people wondered why he hated Mondays? The elevator ride was long. 70,000 stories extending into the exosphere; two hundred miles straight up. It gave John time to think. Inside the glass enclosure, he could see the entirety of Free State City sprawled out before him – it was said that the Free State had to build up. The majority of the asteroid on which it was built was uninhabitable. It was true Free State science had long surpassed the Klingon shielding mechanism that housed the ultra-modern city, but environmental conditions on the below-freezing space rock meant only a small part of it could support construction. Not that that stopped The Free State. It was hard to believe this city – not to mention the infrastructure that allowed it to be built and maintained – was only a few years old. It was as though the galaxy’s most modern civilization had sprung up over night. The contrast to The Federation was stark. In the world John was used to, technology was implemented with a design sense and caution that bordered on the psychotic. Everything had to be tested and re-tested. Every possible repercussion understood and analyzed before new tech could be disseminated to the public. Here, technology grew like a weed. No, a weed was the wrong image. Like an untamed garden. Wild and dangerous but with a warmer aesthetic than back home. Free State City wasn’t the capital of some stagnant super-power. Free State City was alive. Of course, all of that freedom came at a price. The place reminded him of several of old Earth’s revolutionary periods. It wasn’t the deliberate invocation of French Revolution era symbols or uniforms – every flag emblazoned with the words liberté, égalité, fraternité in old Earth French – every uniform and rank copied almost slavishly out of historical texts on the French foreign legion, with few modern updates. No, John was a student of history and The Free State shared something else with every freshly minted state he had every studied at The Academy: arrogance. A can-do spirit that speaks of a need to prove something. There was electricity in the air here, equal parts danger and promise. But even that added to its appeal. The new-ness. The idea that at any moment all of it might collapse and the grand experiment would be over. If John was being honest with himself, this was the real reason he agreed to come. Not the Ferengi diplomat. Not even the situation with The Grazerites. It was good to play it safe but Hadron was in a world of hurt with public opinion and The Fed; he would either say anything to save his own skin or he’d crack under the pressure and believe whatever he needed to get through the night. The Vulcan wasn’t guilty of any crime except maybe cult of personality. John’s real reason for the trip was right in front of him. He had seen the vids but he had to view it here, in person. And looking out at the whole vista from the highest point available to him, he had to admit… … it did not disappoint. WHOOSH. The elevator doors opened and John found himself in a long hallway with a pair of double doors at the end. No diplomatic ceremony. No pomp and circumstance. Not even an appointment desk or secretary. Just a long, quiet walk in the shadow of the massive political power John felt to be emanating from the office ahead of him. After what felt like an eternity, he reached the end of the hallway and took a deep breath. “Into the breech,” he told himself and reached for the polished brass doorknob – “Heyyy!” A wave of voices emanated from inside the office as the door exploded open in front of John. The unmistakable celebratory walla of a crowd encouraging someone – or a lot of someones – to drink one or many alcoholic beverages. A young Government secretary type stumbled backwards out in front of John. “They said… that is to say…” the young woman took a beat and seemed to gather her words, right before giving up and hurling on John’s shoes. “Bathroom?” John pointed in the direction of the elegant looking sign at the other end of the hallway. The woman gave a curt nod and hurried off toward the commode. The vibe in the Brigadier General’s office was one of relaxed celebration. More like a birthday or a casual Friday night in Creed’s academy days than the seat of power for the Beta Quadrant’s newest ruthless dictator. An old Earth song played on what John recognized from his studies as something called “a turntable”. Later on, he had the opportunity to look up the song playing: “Moon Dance” by Van Morrison. A 20th century song Federation historical records identified as being part of the Jazz Pop / R&B genres. The Free State General certainly had strange tastes. The room raised their glasses and threw back another round of expensive – and seemingly non-replicated – champagne. Amidst a dozen other people and behind a large desk with a multi-monitor set-up embedded into the framework – the only furniture in the large office, with the exception of two extremely post-modern looking Ferengi sitting chairs – John saw him. A rather short Vulcan in a red military uniform: the Free State’s Brigadier General Nezak. “Commander Creed!” the Brigadier-General exclaimed as he leapt from his chair to greet him. “Your flight was comfortable enough, I trust?” “I… yes. Very comfortable. Thank you.” “Yes, well. The Federation does value its comforts, doesn’t it? You’ll have to forgive me. We’re just wrapping up a New Year’s party here.” John was taken aback. “Sir? I didn’t know The Free State followed The Federation Calendar.” “Some of it. We pick and choose what we like, as we do with most things. Free-staters love New Year’s. The promise of it. A new era, no going back. I find they can relate.” He paused for a moment and indicated toward his champagne flute. “I’m a little drunk, I’m afraid. Would you like one?” John dimly remembered from his academy days that Vulcans couldn’t get drunk. At least not on alcohol; chocolate produced a similar effect by inhibiting Vulcan neurotransmitters and increasing serotonin output in their overly copper-heavy bloodstream, but surely the Brigadier-General realized that information was easy enough to check? So what did he hope to gain by lying about it? “I’m fine, thanks.” “Suit yourself.” The Brigadier-General made a show of finishing the last of his drink and then gestured for John to follow him out of his office. “So. John Creed,” The Brigadier General began. He tapped absently on a PADD and brought up what looked to John like a Starfleet file. “Graduated from Academy 2391. Good test scores, commendations from senior officers. Promoted Captain, 2399. Resigned post in 2409, only to be re-commissioned at the rank of Commander, 2421. So what was it that made you quit Starfleet for twelve years, Commander?” John was annoyed. “How did you get that? Starfleet personnel files are classified Federation documents. Private.” “Nothing’s private in an autocracy, Commander. You and I both know that. The Federation sees everything. Except, of course, what’s right in front of its face.” The Brigadier-General was clearly a man uninterested in normal diplomatic niceties. John decided he’d play along for now. “And what’s that?” “History,” the Brigadier-General replied. John looked around. They must have made a turn he hadn’t seen when he’d stepped off the elevator because, suddenly, everywhere they stepped the building was alive with activity. As they walked, the Brigadier-General handled reports, rainfall estimates, intelligence statements, signed off on troop movements, political language, even weather reports. His movements were as fluid as an administrative ballerina. All of it taking no more than seconds. Clearly, the Brigadier-General was the nerve center through which everything in The Free State flowed. After a moment, he turned his attention back to John, almost incidentally. “It’s my birthday today,” he said, casually. “Pardon?” “My birthday. New Year’s Day. One of two fairly odd circumstances surrounding my birth. I’ll tell you the other some day. It does give me a sort of a mythic quality, doesn’t it? Solomon Grundy born on a Monday, know what I mean?” John had been in the Brigadier-General’s presence mere moments and already he had the sense truth was something the Free State leader regarded as a matter of multiple choice. He decided to forge ahead with his job, as long as he was here. “Sir. If I might, The Federation has tasked me with a fact finding mission regarding The Grazer Incident and –” “Ugh. I’d prefer you didn’t.” “Sir. Grazer is top priority for The Fed brass right now. If I could just–” “Grazer’s nothing, Commander. A non-starter. Captain Hadron is a good man who’s finally cracked. Or a cracked man who’s finally shown signs up cracking. I’ll admit, we used The Grazer Situation. Off the record, I saw an opportunity and I seized on it. It was a tragedy for The Federation. Terrible tragedy. Made all the worse by an upstart like me using it to make political hay. But there’s nothing there. The Federation is just looking for a fall guy and when all is said and done, it will be Captain Hadron.” “That may be, sir. But it’s still my job to find out the truth.” “Then answer my question. Why did you quit Starfleet?” John considered the inquiry with reluctance. “Politics.” “And why did you join in the first place?” “I have trouble remembering. But I think it had something to do with being the best. My best self. Exploration. Getting out there and learning to be a better me.” “And now?” “And now what?” “What do you think of Starfleet now?” “This is becoming very personal.” “You’ve got nothing to worry about. Say what you feel, Commander.” John considered his answer carefully. Then decided he didn’t care enough to censor himself. “It’s shit. Getting better but still: shit. The last two decades have been an embarrassment and, frankly, it’s unacceptable that the alpha quadrant’s premiere super-power is getting its ass handed to it by an upstart Vulcan pirate. Sir.” “That, Commander… is a very good answer.” The Brigadier-General opened a door as he finished and John’s jaw dropped. He must have missed it while they were talking but between all the hallways and the turbo lifts, the Free State leader had taken them to street level. Or a'' street level. The Free State had a lot of them. One of the functions of a city built up, rather than out. John assumed this wasn’t the one he entered on because he hadn’t spent as long in the turbo-lift this time, but he couldn’t be sure. The view on the street was something else. Hundreds – thousands – of people flooded the streets, making it a sea of red because of their bandanas and painted shirts. John knew that part wasn’t about The Free State. It was about The Klingon, Azaram and his religion: “The Red Path”. But still. The Free State knew how to use it to whip these people into a frenzy. And that wasn’t all they used. He saw, of all the people on the street, not a single set of eyes focused on ground level. Instead, they were pointed up – at the sky. With his pilot’s training, John estimated the sight was about thirty-six – maybe thirty seven thousand kilometers out. Right around this planetoid’s Clarke Belt. Not a coincidence given the dozen Lancers in military formation parked in geosynchronous orbit around the asteroid. Each of their torpedo tubes working over-time… a crayon box explosion of primary colors… so big and bright they seemed to fill up the night sky completely. Green and yellow and purple and – above all – red. There was so much red in the sky John could hardly believe it. He had to remind himself to close his mouth as he looked up, gaping, with every other Free State citizen. John shook his head. ''Jesus Christ… he thought. Fireworks you can see from space. Now I really have seen everything… The Brigadier-General turned to him and smiled. “2426,” he said. “Gonna be a helluva year…” John Creed’s head was swimming. He almost wished he had taken some of that champagne. At least then he’d have an excuse. It had been twenty minutes since he’d met the Brigadier-General – maybe longer, it was tough to tell with him; time and conversation seemed to stretch, then snap back and resume normal shape, like a rubber band. He still couldn’t get over how the crowd had just parted for them back on the street. He’d met powerful men before. But it was hard to shake the feeling he was living with a man literally born for the history books. The two of them stood in The Free State Science Directorate hangar bay. A massive, virgin ship propped up, as though on display, seemingly for just the two of them. John recognized it as a Lancer but the design was new. Federation scientists still barely understood Free State technology and this boat seemed to have even more bells and whistles than the ones John had seen employed in video footage from the Grazer Incident. After a long moment of silence, the Brigadier-General turned to him. “She’s a beauty, ain’t she?” “Yeah,” John replied. There was no denying it. John had seen a lot of ships in dry dock but none of them quite like The Lancer. It was like a master-class in ship design. But John still had no idea what he was doing here. It was the Brigadier-General that had agreed to the Federation inquiry. John was assured by his superiors, the Free State leader had every intention of cooperating but so far, he’d done nothing but evade John’s questions. Why submit yourself to an investigation if you had no intention of answering questions? As if sensing his thoughts, the Brigadier-General spoke up. “You’ll get your answers, John.” “With due respect, General. When?” “Soon enough. After. I just wanted a Federation officer here to witness it. The enormity of what we’ve done here. I say we, of course, but I’m a small part of it. That part of my life is done but it matters to me. You and I, we come from the same place. We had the same Professors. I needed someone who would understand.” “Understand what?” “What The Federation doesn’t know how to see anymore.” The Brigadier-General was infuriating. Then again, John expected that. Diplomats were usually impossible to get a straight answer out of. But here in the hangar bay, this felt like something else. More than the usual political game playing. The Brigadier-General seemed to soften. Once again, without John saying a word, he spoke. “I’m getting older, Commander. Vulcans live almost twice as long as humans but still: I feel ancient. I’ve outlived best friends and old enemies and I’m just… tired.” John didn’t quite know what to say. The last thing he expected was the leader of The Free State spilling his guts for him. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of what we’ve accomplished. But I never wanted to be a career politician. So it’s time for a refocusing period. A recommitment to principles. The future comes for us all. There are still hard days ahead. For all of us. But today, I have a shiny new Ferarri. The best money can buy. And I have every intention of taking her out for a joyride.” “What kind of joyride? Where are you going?” “Deep Space 9, at first. To pick up the rest of her crew.” “And then?” “Anywhere no one’s ever been before.” John couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It was all so ridiculous. “So what? This is all some kind of midlife crisis?” “Vulcans live longer than humans, remember? Maybe it’s more like a tri-life crisis. I dunno. Maybe I’m cracking up. It’s unexplored territory. Exciting, isn’t it?” “Look, we know about The Collider Drive in The Federation. Fed techs guess it might even be three times faster than anything we’ve got. Impressive, but –” “Ha. Three times as fast. You’re adorable, Commander.” With that, the Brigadier-General turned and walked up the metal platform to the waiting ship. John panicked. He didn’t care about Grazer but he couldn’t go back with nothing. “Brigadier-General! The Investigation – I can’t just leave! There’s a Starfleet ship in orbit, waiting to take me back!” “It’s just Deep Space 9, Commander. We’ll have you back before suppertime. And I’ll answer any questions you’ve got on the way. Those are my terms – take them or leave them.” John looked annoyed. It was just like a Vulcan to pull a dirty trick like this. “Oh, c’mon,” the Brigadier-General added as he turned and entered the ship. “Indulge me. It’s my birthday.” As he disappeared, a nearby lab tech turned to John. “Just so you know,” she whispered. “I’ve been working for The Brigadier-General for two years now. And it’s always his birthday…” John Creed had been sitting in the conference room almost twenty minutes. At first, he thought he might have had the wrong conference room but after flagging down an aid it was explained to John that Lancer 0-40 only had the one conference room – this despite the room John left being clearly labeled “Conference Room-02”. “Just the General’s little joke,” the aid explained. Frankly, John was getting tired of the Brigadier-General’s sense of humor but had no choice except to return to the conference room and wait to find out why his presence had been requested. Whatever the reason, it was clear John wasn’t the only person the Brigadier-General intended on meeting with. In the seat across from him was a Cardassian John didn’t recognize – though his rank insignia lead him to conclude it was Brigade Chief Barada Damar, exiled Cardassian prince and current head of the Free State military under Brigadier-General Nezak. Strangely, though the Cardassian was head administrator of The Red Fleet, John knew from his research he chose not to reside in Free State City. Instead, he spent his time on Deep Space Nine, also serving as the station’s military Governor. John imagined Barada was the chief reason for Lancer 0-40’s stop at the former Federation station, though they’d seemed to pick up one or two other crew as well, judging by the number of Red Fleet attachés suddenly moving about the ship. When Chief Damar entered the room, it was with a purposeful stride and military bearing. The kind of figure your attention was drawn to without him needing to say a word. Not exactly imposing, but a presence. The effect was not mitigated by the strange helmet he wore. Brushed metal painted blood red and accompanied by a black visor, it covered the entirety of his face. When he removed it, John could swear he heard the sound of servos and what seemed like a quick decompression, leading him to conclude the helmet might contain its own atmosphere. He guessed the whole set-up must have weighed thirty or forty pounds, clearly designed more for function than form and yet, he got the impression the Cardassian would have worn it through the whole meeting, if not for the concern it might be read as rude. Even more perplexing to John was the young woman sitting next to him. A striking Japanese girl, mid-20s, hair styled in an old-fashioned shoulder cut, wearing an outdated Federation uniform. It wasn’t until after several seconds of watching her that John noticed the subtle but unmistakable scanline flicker of a holo-emitter image. “I’m sorry,” John said. “Are you a transcription program?” “No,” the hologram replied. “I am HOSHI.” “I’m not familiar with the HOSHI design. What is your ship function?” “I don’t understand the question.” John shifted uncomfortably. He noticed the insignia on the woman’s arm indicated she was a lieutenant. This only intrigued John more, as he’d never met a hologram with rank before. “Sorry, I must not be being clear. I mean, why are you here, at the meeting?” HOSHI blinked at him. If John didn’t know better, he’d say she was annoyed. “What a strange question. Brigadier-General Nezak invited me.” “It’s just… well, you know you’re wearing a Federation uniform?” The beautiful young woman glanced down at her outfit. “So I am,” she replied. An almost imperceptible scanline twitch and suddenly, the same girl sported an immaculately tailored Red Fleet uniform. “Better?” John decided not to pursue it further. Fortunately, at that moment, their fourth entered. A handsome and – John imagined – excessively well-groomed Sub-Lieutenant in a pressed Red Fleet uniform. The man looked around the room and shook his head. “No,” he said. “Not right. Not at all.” John couldn’t identify the man’s accent. It seemed to be Old Earth French with some border-world twang mixed in? The man grabbed one of the heavy, egg-shaped conference chairs and loudly dragged it across the room to the other side of the table. Then – looked at the new placement of the chair – and smiled. Apparently satisfied, the man then took his seat with a bright countenance, as though he’d decided to leave the whole unpleasant business behind him. John shook his head. The Brigadier-General certainly surrounded himself with a weird bunch… Finally, the Brigadier-General himself arrived. “Thank you all for joining me,” he said. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve asked you here.” Seemingly of their own accord, the lights dimmed. The far conference room wall became a holographic video display. In front of them, a standard Federation map of the galaxy – divided into four quadrants – rotated into existence out of thin air. “You’re all familiar with The Collider Drive. If you hadn’t seen it in action before, you were party to a demonstration when we arrived. I knew when I invented this technology it would change everything. But we needed time to field-test and incorporate necessary safety features. That beta test period is officially over.” The Brigadier-General focused his attention around the room. “All four of you are here for a reason.” The map of the galaxy spiraled out from known space and moved south. John recognized it from Starfleet intelligence reports as the presumed center of Tholian space. “First, the Tholian problem – it hasn’t escaped Free State attention and I fully accept the possibility that in a few years we will be at war. With an unknown enemy, bringing to bear unknown capabilities. Brigade-Chief Damar has been vigilant on this matter. Per his advice, I believe it is time we did something about it.” The map zoomed in on a piece of Tholian space deep within their territory and generated a holographic representation of what John now recognized from his time aboard Lancer 0-40 as a collider tear. “The Collider Drive was designed as an answer to the problem posed by trans-warp. It allows for unprecedented deployment of forces without pre-existing technology infrastructure. But it has a second, unintended utility for subterfuge.” The Brigadier-General turned to his right. “Barada? If you’ll explain?” The Cardassian stood and began his part of the briefing. “Lancer 0-40 will begin by opening a collider tear into a designated ‘Safe Zone’ within Tholian Space. We believe the risk of encountering enemy forces within this zone to be acceptably minimal,” he began. “To maximize our chances for an effective sensor mapping, we will engage a second, separate collider tear and send a pulse beacon – or ‘False Flag’ – encoded with the signal of a non-Free State Warship. The hope is that this maneuver should draw enough Tholian forces out of the Safe Zone to allow us to complete our mission.” “So that’s what this is all about?” The Japanese holograph woman asked. “The Tholians?” The Brigadier-General shook his head. “If it was, I wouldn’t have asked you here, Hoshi.” Again, without indication, the holographic map on the wall engaged a sub-routine – zooming out of Tholian space and marking two points along the spiral-arm sections of the galaxy. “For years now, I have been in possession of two mysteries. Two sets of coordinates, two potentially dangerous questions burning in my positronically enhanced brain. As some of you know, young Edgar Roetche will be serving as my attaché on this mission.” The French / border-world man stood and gave a respectful nod. The Brigadier-General forged on. “Three years ago, my friend Azaram disappeared. As a devotee of The Red Path, Roetche has studied the life of Azaram. But what not even he knows – what I told no one at the time – is that Azaram did not die on Bajor. At the moment in question, I had a lock on his transporter pattern. That pattern was beamed to a set of coordinates outside this galaxy. I do not expect my friend to be alive. But with your help, I might find closure.” The French / border-world man stood. An overwhelmed expression. John thought he might have seen tears. “I am… honored, General. I truly don’t know what to say.” The Brigadier-General nodded, as though indicating he understood the importance of the gesture. “And just as the death of Azaram affected most of us at this table, there was another subject that year which dominated our attentions: the actions of The Federation group designated Section 31. Fortunately, after their defeat in Federation space, that group appears to have unraveled – or, at the very least, been driven so deeply into the shadows as to no longer be a threat. We knew the actions of that group to have been guided by an entity – or entities – known as Section Prime. What few knew besides myself was the location of Section Prime – here –" The map zoomed again, focusing on a new subject: what looked to John like a sink-hole in space. A circle of swirling black – un-penetrated by the light of the surrounding stars. It reminded John of paintings he’d seen of ancient sailors’ conception of the edge of the known world, where the ocean just dropped over into nothingness after a certain point. “The CMB Cold Spot or ‘Eridanus Super-Void’ is 36,000 light years away. It takes five years to reach at maximum Warp. Three years ago, a group of former Section 31 operatives departed our galaxy on a mission to find and kill Section Prime. I don’t know what answers we’ll find, if any, but Hoshi – given your history with them – I knew you’d want to be there when we looked.” The Japanese hologram woman acknowledged him, grateful. “You’re damn right. Thank you, General.” The Brigadier-General nodded and the hologram woman sat again. “According to my calculations, I believe we can make all three of these locations in 3 – 5 weeks. It’s hard to be more specific than that. Collider science is still very new, after all.” The four of them just considered that for a moment. What the Brigadier-General was proposing was beyond unprecedented. John thought it was insane. He was talking about turning the conception of the known world on its head… and in just five weeks? It was as if Columbus had decided to make his trip to North America over a long weekend. It boggled the mind to even consider. “The four of us,” John heard a voice speak up in the room and was surprised to realize it was his own. He gathered his wits and pressed on. “I’m sorry, Commander?” The Brigadier-General asked. “You had a question?” “Just observing. You said the four of us were all here for a reason. So why am I here? Which one of these three destinations is supposed to be the one I’m interested in?” “None of them,” the Brigadier-General replied. For the first time in the presentation, he pressed a button on his sleeve and the holographic image changed. The map of the galaxy became a scrawl of complex equations and data, in two columns. “As I just told you, our furthest current target is the CMB Cold Spot, 36,000 light years away. The nearest galaxy to our own – Andromeda – is 2.5 million. At current warp speed technology, it would take 684.93 years to reach Andromeda. Making it an impossible destination at warp, even for colony ships.” The Brigadier-General smiled at him. The lights in the room turned on, unexpectedly. “You asked me why you’re onboard. Well, isn’t it obvious?” The Brigadier-General began. John was almost frightened by his expression. He seemed, suddenly, to be beaming like a ten year old kid. “You’re an explorer. And this ship is going to be the first in the history of the universe to touch soil in another galaxy…” John Creed didn’t leave with Lancer 0-40. Instead, he marched right out of that conference room and opened a subspace channel to his superiors, knowing that they would recall him. Which, for all he knew, is exactly what The Brigadier-General wanted. There’s a maneuver in chess called a “fork” – essentially, it involves placing your piece in such a position to two of your opponent’s pieces, such that no matter which choice they make, you benefit. Vulcans were good at chess and it was easy for John to see the Brigadier-General’s move as a fork. Either John left with Lancer 0-40, in which case the Brigadier-General gains another officer for his command structure – another Starfleet higher-up defecting to the Free State and its run of public relations coups – or he didn’t, and insignificant John Creed runs home to his employers in The Federation and tells them exactly what the Brigadier-General wanted them to hear. He didn’t blame the man. In fact, he liked Nezak. John Creed was mad at himself. There was a ship right now with his name on it. A ship bound for the history books – and the Brigadier-General offered it to him, knowing he’d turn it down. It was a decision he knew would haunt him for the rest of his life. But the truth is: John wasn’t ready for it. It wasn’t even as he first thought – that he was a coward and the thought of giving up the only world he’d ever known frightened him too much to act on. No, John had quit Starfleet before. The truth was exactly what he’d told Nezak to his face, back in his office in Free State City. John was a capital “C” conservative. That was how his Daddy raised him. It was in his blood, no shaking it. He did like Brigadier-General Nezak. He even liked The Free State – he was a little frightened by their paramilitary inclinations, their radical politics – but new Governments were always like that. Sooner or later, The Free State would grow up and stop all its colicky carrying on. And maybe it was The Federation’s time. No super power lasts forever, after all. That was just one of the immutable laws set down by the Gods of History. But thinking about it, John couldn’t allow for the notion that the sun would set on The United Federation of Planets just yet. Not on his watch, not during his lifetime.'' Which means'', he thought to himself. ''The real question is… what am I willing to do to stop it? '' John’s orders had him rendezvousing with The USS Taluno. The vessel was to break with Admiral Chekov’s fleet at Bajor and transport him back to Federation space. The eight hours trip gave him time to think and when John’s Runabout disembarked on The Federation Galaxy Class, her captain was there to greet him. “Commander John Creed, Eli Kazan. I took the liberty of having your quarters prepared. I imagine you’ll want to rest after all you’ve been through?” “Hell no,” John replied. He turned to the ship’s captain, steel in his voice. “Son, I want you to set me up with a work station and sub-space link. Private, encoded channels only. And no excuses or you can be sure to be mentioned in my report.” The captain looked confused. After all, she outranked John. But she was fresh-faced, almost half his age, and couldn’t help but straighten at the note of authority in his voice. “Yes, sir,” she replied. “I’ll get right on it.” John Creed nodded and strode on through the shuttle bay. He felt more alive than he had in years. After all, there was work to be done. And now he was sure. He was just the man to see it through…